


Boots

by HiddenKitty



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Bottom Thorin, Hobbit physiology, Light Bondage, M/M, seriously so light it can practically fly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 21:03:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7122475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenKitty/pseuds/HiddenKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Retired to the Shire with his husband Bilbo, Thorin Oakenshield finds he is more willing to adopt some Hobbitish habits than others...</p><p>(Many thanks to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/mcmanatea/pseuds/mcmanatea">mcmanatea</a> for the beta!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boots

For some reason, in a small Hobbiton tailor’s dressing room, Thorin feels more of a foolish popinjay than he ever did in the robes and jewels of state he once wore daily. However, the simpler Dwarvish clothes he brought to Bag End with him have long since ceased to fit. Shire cooking is plentiful and delicious, and if Thorin were a suspicious Dwarf, he might even suspect his husband of ulterior motives, given how often his favourite pies and syllabubs appear on their dining table. There is no doubt that Bilbo does not object to Thorin’s new, more generous figure, even if it has led to the expense of a new wardrobe to accommodate it.

Thorin smooths his hands over the dark brocade waistcoat with its fiddly little silver buttons and draws the curtain aside with grim resignation. 

His husband’s expression soothes his concerns. “Oh,” says Bilbo, beaming with delight. He looks Thorin up and down with visible satisfaction, and then his face drops.

“No,” says Bilbo, pointing at his boots. “Thorin, no.”

Thorin grimaces. He had anticipated this, but will not be moved, not even by Bilbo. He knows his boots are old, and scuffed, and the fur spats and metal toecaps are not exactly in keeping with this elegant Shire outfit. All the same, he will draw the line at bare feet, knowing too well how amusing the inhabitants of the Shire are likely to find his bald toes. 

“I am no Hobbit. I cannot go barefoot,” he says firmly.

Bilbo opens his mouth, eyes flashing, and then suddenly relents. He pauses, nose twitching in thought.

“Perhaps we can find you some less dreadful ones.”

Thorin can hear himself growling before he is able to prevent it. “These boots...” he begins, and Bilbo nods, flapping a hand at him impatiently.

“Dwarf boots, yes, and very good ones, I’m sure. Wonderfully suited to living in mountains, Thorin, but we are in the Shire now, and I just wonder. Something a little lighter? Let me think,” says Bilbo, shaking his head. “Goodness, I haven’t bought boots for decades. I’m not even sure where mine came from. We’ll probably have to go all the way to Bree.”

“You own boots?” asks Thorin, any argument lost in sheer astonishment. 

“Well, for snowy weather, yes,” admits Bilbo, frowning. “Like Dwarves using lamplight in mines.”

Thorin is prepared to admit the comparison. Dark vision can only stretch so far, after all.

“If I might...?” asks the tailor, still looking terrified, although whether of himself or Bilbo, Thorin cannot tell. “Aldo Fenlock has a leatherworking shop next door to Halwin’s forge. He does all the usual, satchels, harnesses, intimate apparel, winter boots. I’m sure he’d be glad to make something for Mister Oakenshield.”

“Does he, indeed?” asks Bilbo, with interest. 

Thorin is still running the list of products through his head in confusion as they leave, carrying his new clothes in a parcel under one arm since Bilbo flatly refused to let him leave the shop wearing Dwarf boots and Shire clothes. Once they are out on the road again, he asks.

“Intimate apparel?”

Bilbo looks surprised. “What?”

“The leatherworker. Satchels and intimate apparel, that’s what the tailor said.”

“Well, yes,” says Bilbo, although he seems slightly flustered. “Sorry, are we adding to the shopping list?”

Thorin considers. “I don’t know. I am not sure what intimate apparel means, in the Shire.”

Bilbo rubs the back of his neck, and now he is definitely blushing. It’s a very pretty shade on him, always has been.

“Oh, you know,” mumbles Bilbo. “Um. Intimate things, for bedplay. For those who want that sort of stuff. Restraints, and things like that.” He laughs suddenly, and shrugs. “Not that we need them, given that you can pin me down with one hand.”

“Hmm,” replies Thorin, and sees Bilbo’s eyes widen in realisation.

“Ah,” says Bilbo thoughtfully. “Well. Now that is an excellent point.”

\--

It is a scant fortnight later when Thorin finds himself bound by softly padded leather cuffs to a post of their bed in Bag End, naked as a babe and so aroused he can barely think straight.

“Such good ideas you have sometimes,” says Bilbo, kneeling over him with a wicked smile. “I rather like having you utterly at my mercy.”

Thorin is a Dwarf, of course, and not much short of steel shackles could truly hold him, but the restraints at his wrists are firm enough to serve for now. Besides, the knowledge that he is required to do nothing but respond tonight has already left him half-incapable with need. 

“Goodness, I could do anything to you,” murmurs Bilbo, running a fingertip down Thorin’s chest, his eyes alight with possibilities, and Thorin cannot stifle a soft moan.

Bilbo leans back immediately. “Still all right?” he asks. Thorin nods, eyes fluttering shut as he attempts to summon speech through the haze of his desire.

“Yes,” he manages. “Anything.”

Bilbo grins.

“I might go and put the kettle on,” he says then, his thumb stroking over Thorin’s lower lip. “Get myself a cup of tea and just enjoy the view for a bit.”

Thorin bites back a snarl at the thought. He can trust Bilbo with his life, he knows, but his dignity is something else entirely.

Bilbo is laughing now, very softly. “I wouldn’t, you know,” he says, with such tenderness. “I can barely keep my hands off you already; you’re too beautiful, Thorin, too lovely to resist for long.”

He strokes along Thorin’s cheek, and Thorin can never understand why this undoes him so completely, why he is so vulnerable to Bilbo’s praise, leaning eagerly into each gentle word and caress. Perhaps because it is so hard for him to believe it, and yet he trusts Bilbo so completely that he must. How it is that such a sparkling, brilliant jewel as his Hobbit could want a scarred old beast like Thorin is impossible to make sense of, but he will take it and be glad of it, always.

“Gorgeous,” murmurs Bilbo, resting back on his heels as his hands slide down over Thorin’s chest, and Thorin cannot help but agree. Bilbo is gorgeous, wearing only his open linen shirt, his skin pale and unblemished and glowing, almost, or so it seems to Thorin. Even his cock is perfect, dark pink and rising in a curve against his soft belly from a nest of curls as tidy as those on his head or his feet, or the neat tuft that sits at the centre of his chest. 

(The thought has struck Thorin before, glancing down at his husband walking innocently down the road at his side, and his cheeks warmed at the secret similarity.)

Thorin wants it, now, wants to suck or stroke, or better yet to be opened up by it, to bear down with hips and arse and be taken, hard. He can do none of those things, tethered as he is, and the frustration is such a precarious pleasure that he growls again.

“Patience!” scolds Bilbo cheerfully. “I’m not done with you yet, far from it.”

Bilbo leans forward again, his quick, clever hands and mouth moving across Thorin’s body relentlessly, teasing his nipples with licks and nibbles, grasping soft handfuls at his fleshy waist, reaching down to stroke a fingertip up along the cleft of his arse or cup his stones, never stopping in one place. He takes a pinch of the hair on the tenderest part of Thorin’s stomach and tugs, yet Thorin is so wholly surrendered that the twinge of pain becomes pleasure, and his neglected prick twitches and slaps against his belly. There is no escape, even if he wished for one.

“Such a mess,” breathes Bilbo, curling his hand at last around Thorin’s cock to spread the beading fluid over the head with his thumb. He leans down on his side, propped on one elbow, whispering close in Thorin’s ear. “Do you think this could be enough? A bit of spit, and I could take you just with your own wetness? I think you could do it, you know, I think you need it so badly you probably wouldn’t even care if I left you a bit sore.”

It’s true, and Thorin is so desperate now that he even dares hope Bilbo means it, although his husband has never been so ungentle with him. Thorin presses his face into the coolness of the pillow, nodding helplessly, almost drooling against the cotton.

“There, there, my poor Thorin,” says Bilbo, but his voice is a little rougher now, too. He reaches over Thorin’s head for the little jar of salve that they keep beside the bed, and sits back, pressing a quick affectionate kiss to the tip of Thorin’s nose. His fingers dip into the jar and soon Thorin feels the cool push of a slicked fingertip inside him and sighs in relief. 

It’s not long before he wants more, but perhaps Bilbo is done with teasing after all, because a second finger is soon added, and then a third, and though Thorin’s body thrums with desire he forces himself to breathe slowly, exhaling long and shakily, willing himself to be ready. The push of Bilbo’s fingers inside him isn’t quite what he needs, and he moans with frustration.

“Now, don’t, don’t rush me. I want you nice and open,” Bilbo grins, watching the effect of his words on Thorin’s crumbling self-restraint, “and slick, and ready…”

“I am ready,” growls Thorin, tugging hard enough against his bonds that he can hear the creak of the wooden bedposts. He is ready, he is more than ready. 

Bilbo stops. “If you break this bed I shall be furious,” he says, quite seriously, and Thorin grits his teeth and stills himself, trembling in every limb with the effort. He can hear his own breath, loud and ragged. 

“Please,” he begs, and for once, is answered. Bilbo lays a slicked, steadying hand upon Thorin’s hip as he lines up against him and begins to push forward. 

“Oh, there, yes,” breathes Bilbo as he moves slowly inside, eyes closed tightly as he fills Thorin at last. The unyielding stretch burns for just a second until his body recognises it as pleasure. Bilbo is biting his lip, struggling not to move, evidently close to his first finish. Thorin dares to tense his muscles gently around him.

Bilbo’s hips stutter forwards and he gasps, ragged and needy. Hot pulses spill inside Thorin, slicking Bilbo’s movements further as he abruptly pushes deeper, harder, hips pressed up tight against Thorin’s arse. It’s good, sudden and fierce after all that teasing, though it doesn’t last long before Bilbo stills himself again, leaning his cheek against Thorin’s raised knee and catching his breath.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t… wait, did you do that on purpose?” frowns Bilbo, eyeing him suspiciously. 

Thorin shakes his head and locks his heels together at the back of Bilbo’s thighs, pulling him in now that everything is slicked even further, slippery with seed though Bilbo’s cock is still hard and fat within him. This quirk of Hobbits, that they can spill twice or more at a tumble, always seems a miracle to Thorin. Bilbo had been so sorry to find his husband could not follow suit, but the sweet proof of Bilbo’s pleasure is thrill enough, and more. Bilbo huffs another laugh, falling against Thorin’s belly, pressing Thorin’s leaking cock between them. 

“I’m not sure I believe you,” he says, pulling back to roll his hips against Thorin far too slowly, leaning away and watching his face intently, as if he’s drinking in the little involuntary sounds that escape Thorin’s throat on every slow, careful thrust. The curtains are drawn, and candlelight plays on the red of Bilbo’s hair, little gold flames reflecting in his dark eyes as he grins. 

“Do you need reminding who’s in charge here?” asks Bilbo, his voice dangerously soft.

Thorin manages some sort of wordless protest. He knows exactly who is in charge. The yearning to reach up and clutch at Bilbo threatens to overwhelm him, the need to sink his fingers into the yielding flesh of Bilbo’s thick thighs and demand more. He could break the cuffs, he knows, but the likelihood of things then ending as he needs them to would be very remote. He has risked enough, daring to push Bilbo to spend once already. He must lie where he is tethered, and obey, and have only what Bilbo will give him.

“That’s better. Look at you, being so good,” murmurs Bilbo, and Thorin is glad beyond measure that he can be good for his beloved, for this unlooked-for blessing of Bilbo’s love that has made all his long life worth the wait. Every muscle in his body is singing with pleasure, and his heart aches with the longing to please in his turn. 

Bilbo’s cock slides within him faster now, eased by his spending, hot and hard, and Thorin draws his knees further up, further apart until his thighs begin to ache, letting his body beg for more, harder, deeper. It’s working. Through wet eyelashes Thorin can see the muscle in Bilbo’s jaw tensing, as if his control is getting harder to maintain. 

He cants his hips up to meet Bilbo, heels braced into the mattress to take every deep thrust. A drop of sweat trickles down his back, between the crease of his shoulders and Thorin clenches his fists, struggling with himself not to pull free. His breathing is ever more laboured now, great heaving breaths as he tries to stave off the pleasure that tightens in his gut. With one spend behind him, Bilbo may not have much longer, but there is every likelihood he will outlast Thorin. 

Bilbo’s hand wraps around Thorin’s leaking prick at last, and Thorin keens with need. 

“There, my beautiful Thorin,” pants Bilbo. “There, I’ve got you, come for me.”

Thorin has only been waiting for permission, so when his release comes, it surges through him, ripping a gasping roar from his throat. Seed streaks across his belly as Thorin arches against the bed, Bilbo’s hand still tight about his cock and stripping every last pulse of his orgasm from him.

He’s shuddering still when he collapses back down against the soft mattress, every muscle slackened and altogether undone. By now the cuffs may as well be made of mithril.

Above him Bilbo is motionless, his eyes barely open and a half-smile on his face. “Oh,” he murmurs, and then jerks forward, mouth wide, just twice more. _“Ah!”_

“Bilbo?” asks Thorin blearily, unsure of what just happened. He is so slick and loose and over-sensitive by now it’s hard to tell. 

“Ooh,” sighs Bilbo happily, letting himself fall forward onto Thorin’s chest, apparently unbothered by the mess there. “I could feel you all tight and fluttery around me, and you looked so lovely, and I was so close that was all I needed. I think I’ve done now. Oh, my stars, you’re perfect.”

Thorin grunts, unwilling to argue for once, though if anyone in this bed is perfect it certainly isn’t him. As the wash of pleasure recedes the muscles of his shoulders are beginning to ache, his wrists still secured above his head, but Bilbo is petting his chest gently, looking happily exhausted. It’s pleasant enough, and after a few moments his husband sits up, wiggles his nose, and begins to unbuckle him.

There’s a relief to stretching out again and yet more to enfolding Bilbo back into his arms, kissing him and giving his round, adorable arse a firm squeeze as he reassures Bilbo that he enjoyed their sport. As if there could truly have been any doubt. Bilbo fusses over the faint red marks on Thorin’s wrists, reluctant to believe it when Thorin tells him quite sincerely that he can barely feel them. He’s slipped away already, fetching a washcloth and a cup of water, smoothing Thorin’s hair back from his face with knowing tenderness.

“Well. That was marvellous,” says Bilbo, peeling off his shirt at last and climbing back onto the bed. “I must send Aldo a fruit basket or something, to thank him.”

Thorin just sips his water in silence, and smiles to himself. He has long since given up trying to understand the social niceties of the Shire, and if Bilbo thinks it’s appropriate to send a fruit basket, then presumably he is correct. He tugs the somewhat crumpled sheets and blankets down and arranges them over the two of them, tucking Bilbo up against him, where he should always be. They are more than ready for sleep after such a tumble.

As they begin to drift off, a thought strikes Thorin, and he thinks of his smart new footwear standing in the hallway. They are plainer than he would prefer, but well-made and sturdy, and should last a long time. “He makes good boots, too.”


End file.
